CHAPTER 02

jackson

F uck being in a good mood.

Fuck this goddamn meeting.

And fuck West McNamara. Maybe I’d call him Dakota just to piss him off. Yeah, I was still bitter about the whole damn thing. I loved him—I had for a long time—and I’d honestly been fooled into thinking he loved me too. That night in the field was supposed to be our turning point. But then that selfish asshole just walked away from it all. From the ranch. From his dad. From me.

There was no denying that Dakota West McNamara had broken my heart.

I would’ve been just fine—maybe a little hurt—if he’d told me that night had been a stupid fluke. A thing he didn’t want. But to just leave without a fucking word? That shit fucked with my head.

I leaned against the only window in that tiny as fuck mediation room, arms crossed, boots crossed, and head tipped down. It made it impossible to see a damn thing over the brim of my Stetson. Not that I cared. Being stuck in a room with Charles Hart and Maggie Lawson wasn’t how I wanted to spend the morning. Hart represented the McNamaras when it came to the ranch while Maggie represented my family. Why the hell my parents split the legal representation was beyond me. Dad died without ever telling me, and Mom’s memory wasn’t real great anymore. I learned early on to not ask questions unless it was dire to the function of the ranch. Maggie seemed to have all her shit in order, so I trusted her.

“I thought you said your client would be here, Mr. Hart,” Maggie quipped once more, her tone tight.

Yeah, West was a good hour late. Color me fucking surprised.

“I have Mr. McNamara’s assurances that he’ll be here soon,” Hart said.

“You’ve been saying that same fucking sentence for the last hour,” I chimed him. I lifted my head, leveling my glare on him. He swallowed hard. That was the thing about me. On camera, I was a hell of a personality. Everyone loved the happy-go-lucky gay bull rider persona. What wasn’t to love about that? But anyone who knew me outside of that? Well, they all knew it was a fucking smoke show. I was a mean son of a bitch when I wanted to be, and no one fucking messed with me. Gay didn’t guarantee I was happy. It just meant I liked dick. I could be as grumpy as I fucking wanted. “I don’t like my time being wasted. Is he showing up or not?”

“He’ll be here,” he insisted and then got right back on his phone. Pushing away from the table, he stormed out of the room. Apparently, Hart was none too impressed with his own client. That made two of us.

“I ain’t staying much longer, Mags,” I told her. “I got shit I need to do. A ranch don’t run itself.”

“I know,” she replied. She leaned back in her chair and sighed. Maggie was older in a way that reminded me of my mom. Dark gray hair, crow’s feet at the corners of her brown eyes, and a smile laced with cyanide. She looked as ready to rip West a new one as I was. Hell, I considered sticking around for just that. “And no one would blame you. I told Charles after everything it took to find Mr. McNamara that we shouldn’t have set this damn meeting until we had him in the state.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I demanded.

“Let me just say that you dodged a bullet with that man wanting to sell,” Maggie said. “It took two private investigators to even find him. His parole officer all but told us to just give up because keeping track of West McNamara is… in his words, a fucking feat.”

“What the hell did he go to jail for?” I asked, frowning. I didn’t need to know, considering how quickly I planned to forget the man, but we’d call it morbid curiosity.

“Armed robbery when he was nineteen. He never fired his weapon and he gave up real fast, which is probably the only reason his sentence was so short. But his behavior in prison was questionable at best.” She rolled her eyes. “Should’ve kept him longer in my opinion with the number of drunken disorderlies and bar fights that man has racked up over the years. It’s a miracle he’s not back in jail.”

Jesus fucking Christ. I ran a hand over my face as I tried to process all of that. I’d convinced myself that West was off living his best fucking life, but it sure as hell didn’t sound that way. Not that it fucking mattered.

“Finally found him in a biker town in Colorado. He rents out a crappy trailer by the week, pays cash for everything, works under-the-table jobs, uses a burner phone,” Maggie continued. “It’s like he didn’t want to be found. The man could’ve died and no one would’ve known.”

“If we’re entirely done with the gossip, Maggie,” Hart interjected loudly as he rejoined us. “I told you my client would be here.”

My gaze snapped to the door where West McNamara stood. Fuck me. He looked good—dangerously good for a man I wanted nothing to do with. Unkempt dark hair flared around his ears and off his neck and stuck out around the aviators atop his head. The thick beard on his face matched the unruliness of his hair. He’d filled out with broad shoulders and muscles in places no man had a right to be showing off in a shirt that fit that tight. The pushed-up sleeves on his Henley showed off ink on both arms and hands. He still wore the leather cord from his mother around his wrist, and the rest of his clothes looked just as old and worn as the cord—dirty work boots, faded jeans, and an old leather jacket that he carried.

But those gray eyes. Shit, there was a void there. Broken. Haunted. I couldn’t quite explain it, but he looked every bit the invisible man he was trying to be.

His chin lifted slightly when he caught me staring.

“Jackson,” he greeted without an ounce of emotion in his voice .

“About fucking time you showed up,” I growled. “Next time you set a fucking meeting, you show up for the goddamn meeting. No one owes you shit here, and we sure as hell don’t need to be waiting around for your ass to decide to show the fuck up.”

The tension in the room skyrocketed as Hart and Maggie held their breath, waiting for whatever retaliation would come. The West I knew was a fucking fighter. There was a reason we needed lawyers and a neutral location to hash this shit out. Once he got started, there was no stopping him. I wanted that fucking fight with him.

“Let’s just get this shit over with so I can get the fuck out of this state,” West replied, giving in much to my surprise. And a little to my disappointment. He found a chair at the farthest end of the room and sat, putting his back to a corner.

“It’s what you’re fucking good at,” I quipped just to be an asshole. His jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

“It’s not going to be that easy,” Hart said. Like the good attorney he was, he moved his chair to sit next to his client. I didn’t miss the way West stiffened at his closeness.

“And why the fuck not?” West demanded.

“Well, your father—Harrison,” he corrected quickly when West’s scowl deepened. “Harrison had… concerns about your personal investment in Double Arrow Ranch after… well, he said… I’m not sure I want to repeat—”

West’s hand slammed on the folder Hart held onto, making the man jump.

“You say the exact words he said, and I’ll put your ass in an early grave, you feel me?” he growled. Jesus fuck. “Learn to summarize, Charles.”

“Of course.” The actual relief on the man’s face was surprising. I found myself real damn curious about what Harrison had said. “Your father—Harrison didn’t think you’d be of sound mind and clarity upon returning to Double Arrow Ranch.”

“Of course he didn’t,” West scoffed.

“As a result, he had his will changed.”

“To what? ”

“In order to benefit from the sale of Double Arrow Ranch, you have to work the ranch for no less than one year. If you don’t, you forfeit the money you’d make and everything automatically goes to Jackson Myles.”